


only death can finish the fight.

by foxriverblues



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), The Witcher (TV), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: I'm bad at tagging things, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, will update these as i add more chapters and things change!, work isn't beta'ed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverblues/pseuds/foxriverblues
Summary: Dream’s fingers tighten around the axe, and he lowers it to rest at his side, comfortable and familiar in his hand. It’s muscle memory for him; his axe, when he yields it, becomes an extension of his arm. The blade glints, black that sparks purple when the sunlight hits it, colored by the enchantments he’d applied to it.As he raises the weapon into a fighting stance, the zombie lumbers from behind the trees. Its skin is a sickly shade of green, and it’s wearing the remnants of the clothes that it had been wearing when it had been turned from human to undead. Dream can see the caked blood staining its mouth, dripping down its chin, onto its tattered shirt.or: the Witcher/Minecraft fusion that absolutely nobody asked for.alternatively: a hunter, a mage, and a bard walk into a bar...
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	only death can finish the fight.

Dream is _very tired._ He has been traveling for days on end, _weeks_ , even, without stopping for longer than a night, or to catch himself something to eat for dinner. His path has taken him over seemingly endless plains, over snow covered mountains, and now through a dense forest.

The trees have grown so close together that he has to walk his horse, leading her by the reigns as they wind between the trees. Spirit snuffles dramatically, nosing the back of his neck, even once daring to nip at the collar of his jacket when he tries to guide her over some particularly rocky ground. 

But this is par for the course for them — she’s only upset with him that they hadn’t stopped long enough for her liking a few hours ago when he’d given in to the rumbling coming from his stomach. She’s used to long journeys such as this one; she hasn’t spent more than a few daysin a row in a stable in several years. Dream _does_ feel bad about that, that she doesn’t live the life of a horse with free roam over a vibrant green pasture with plenty of flowers to chew on.

Fallen branches snap as he steps on them, the cracking wood sounding loud in the eerie stillness of the woods around them. It shouldn’t be this quiet — there should be the sounds of birds chirping from up above, the skittering of small animals running over the ground dodging protruding tree roots… even the air around them is still, stagnant… and in his experience, he’s found that prey animals tend to hide when there is a predator around.

Dream slows to a stop, lifting one hand to rest on the bridge of Spirit’s nose, taking quick comfort in the warmth there; she has been his constant companion and, if he thinks enough about it, his only friend. (Though — he’s not quite sure an animal who can only listen to you ramble for hours without being able to talk back counts as a friend — but ahh, _semantics_.) Her steady presence is enough to ground him, and he lifts his other hand, fingers wrapping around the handle of the _other_ constant in his life — his netherite axe, slung over his back.

As if his foe had sensed Dream’s movement, he hears a low groan from a nearby grouping of trees, and the sound of footsteps, heavy and dragging.

Dream’s fingers tighten around the axe, and he lowers it to rest at his side, comfortable and familiar in his hand. It’s muscle memory for him; his axe, when he yields it, becomes an extension of his arm. The blade glints, black that sparks purple when the sunlight hits it, colored by the enchantments he’d applied to it. 

As he raises the weapon into a fighting stance, the zombie lumbers from behind the trees. Its skin is a sickly shade of green, and it’s wearing the remnants of the clothes that it had been wearing when it had been turned from human to undead. Dream can see the caked blood staining its mouth, dripping down its chin, onto its tattered shirt.

The creatures are relatively stupid, and easy to kill — it doesn’t take him long, and he makes light work of the creature, his axe lopping the head cleanly off at the neck. Zombies travel in packs and so when several more emerge, he’s ready for them.

Spirit stands, unfazed, chewing on some grass. She watches calmly as Dream decimates the horde, whickering softly when Dream finds a few lumps of iron in some of the zombie’s pockets. The creature won’t need it anymore anyways.

Dream tucks his axe away after he finishes searching the bodies, and wipes his face with the back of one arm. He’s covered in zombie gore, black and rotting. They’d passed a river a few hours back, but the sky is starting to darken. If they turned to go back to the water, they’d be out after dark. It would be another night of sleeping hidden in the woods instead of in a relatively comfortable bed in an inn. He has the gold, after all — why not spend it?

There is a village at the edge of the forest, large enough to even be considered a town. Dream scans it from a distance as they approach, firmly seated on Spirit’s back. He won’t be welcome in town, he’s sure — people can spot a Hunter from miles off, and they tend to either cower in fear or level him with angry glares. 

Dream reaches down to unhook his mask — a crude white circle with two holes for eyes and a smile carved into it — from where it hangs off Spirit’s saddle, sliding it down and over his face.

In this town, he’s not sure if it’s his job position or the fact that he reeks like a rotting corpse that leads the townspeople to avoid him like he’s got the plague. They give him a wide berth as he rides down the main street, looking for some sort of inn… _anywhere_ where he can settle in and wash up. He notes the location of a blacksmith, where he’ll need to stop tomorrow to try and sell the iron he’d found. A few houses, a church… and then he sees the wooden sign advertising room and board, swinging above the door of a large establishment. A tavern, with an inn on the upper floors. _Perfect_.

Dream brings Spirit to the stables across the street from the inn, handing over an emerald to the wary looking stable keep, then crosses the dusty road and enters the tavern. The din of conversation swells as he pushes open the door… and then ceases when they realize who has just entered. He ducks his head, glad they can’t see his face, trying to put on the airs that he doesn’t _care_ as he strides towards the barkeep, who stands behind the bar, frozen with a mug in one hand and a dirty rag in the other.

“How much for a room?” He foregoes pleasantries — he’s sure that this man won’t care to hear them. “And some food, as well.”

“Four gold for the room, seven nuggets for a meal.” The glass in the barkeep’s hand clinksunsteadily against the table as he sets it down; the man is _shaking_. 

Dream reaches a hand into his purse, pulling out the required fare, setting it down on the wooden bar top. “If the food could be brought up to the room… and hot water for a bath.”

The barkeep turns to lift a key from a set of hooks, then — instead of handing it directly to Dream — puts it down next to the gold. “Room seven. The food and water will be up shortly.” 

Dream lifts the key up with two fingers, nodding in thanks, and makes his way up to the room. It’s a very basic one, likely the worst that the inn has, but he doesn’t care. There is a bed shoved up in one corner, a wooden table and chair, and a tub for bathing. There is a candle on the table; Dream lifts a hand, mutters something, and the wick lights, filling the room with a dim glow. He sets his mask down on the table, glad to have it off. 

The food arrives a few minutes later, as well as the water, along with a rag and some lye soap — the food is nothing fancy, just a baked potato and some carrots, and Dream eats them standing up so as to not dirty the chair. Then he sheds his clothes and slides into the warm water, eyes rolling back at the feeling. He lets himself soak for a few minutes of bliss, allowing the caked gore and mud all over him to soften… and then he scrubs himself until his skin is pink and raw. 

When he’s done bathing, he bolts the door and props the chair against the handle, then gets into bed. It’s stiff, and the pillow is flat… but he falls asleep almost instantly. 

He wakes to a hot, hot heat, and the sound of _screaming_.

* * *

If George had to put a label on it, he’s quite sure that he had had one of the worst childhoods in existence. 

He’d grown up on a pig farm — _yes_ , a pig farm, surrounded by stinking swine that rolled in their own filth and would eat whatever you put in front of them. They were loud and smelled terrible… but they made the family money and so that’s all that his father cared about. Not even George’s mother — though it was as if sometimes she couldn’t see George at all. He’s certain his father hit her, for some days he’d fall asleep to screaming and wake to his mother standing quietly by the hearth, a darkening circle around her eye. His father drank too, sometimes to an extreme that left him slumped over the chair by the fire, bottle dangling from limp fingertips.

George, for his part, tried to stay out of the man’s way. He did his chores dutifully, caring for the pigs and cleaning the house, going to market with the animals and coming back with money (or going with money and coming back with food for the family)… he was as best of a son as he knew how to be. 

Regardless of what he did, though, his father seemed to carry a deep rooted hatred for George. He couldn’t explain it, but no matter what he did to please the man, his father wore a look of dislike on his face whenever he needed to speak with George. His father never called him by his name, only ‘boy’ or ‘fool’, setting him to tasks with shouts and a heavy backhand… if he managed to catch George, that is. George had always been slight, and so dodging his slightly overweight father had been easy. 

As much as this life had been awful to him, George couldn’t say that he had expected his father to let him go so easily when a mage had come calling. 

He’d had his conduit moment when he’d been standing in the barn, surrounded by oinking pigs, one hand pressed to his face. His father had used a closed fist this time, and as soon as George had managed to pick himself up from the floor he’d scrambled to get as far away from his father as possible. He’d stood there, rage and anger and hatred and pain swirling around in his mind so quickly that it felt very suddenly like an unstoppable storm… and then he’d _screamed_. Instead of sound, there’d been a very powerful shockwave, and he’d fallen over onto his ass in the dirty straw. So did the pig he’d been standing next to. The animal was dead. 

When the mage arrived the next day coming to ask how much it would cost to take George away, his father had sold him for half the cost of a pig. George hadn’t protested — had only stared dumbly at his father, who looked him in the eye and spoke the words that confirmed suspicions that George had had for years… “You’re no son of mine, _boy_.”

As the creaky wagon moved in the other direction, away from the hovel he’d called a home, George took in the last views he would have of it. His father was nowhere to be found… but his mother, she stood in the doorway, staring after him. She lifted a hand to her lips, trembling, then disappeared inside.

His time at the Academy had been… enlightening. He’d never guessed that he would take to magic so easily, let alone that magic even _existed_. The rules of it, the natural give and take, it feels effortless. The magic flows from his fingers like water through a sieve — it’s the first thing that has come so naturally to him. Soon George finds his room piled full of books, eager to study and learn as much as he can about his new craft.

He takes the typical path once he’s deemed fit to graduate from the Academy — he’s sent to serve a king far far away, where his magic is meant to help protect the kingdom. It starts off being something that George enjoys, until he realizes just how little that he is actually _using_ his magic. The king has him perform parlor tricks for his guests, having George wilt flowers in order to make rocks split and grow crystals, or put up shields to hold off playful attacks. He feels like a glorified court jester.

He lasts nearly a year before he decides that he doesn’t want to do this anymore. It makes him think of another time, when he shoveled shit and fed slop to pigs.

And so he leaves, packs his things into a tattered knapsack and steals away when the rest of the kingdom is asleep. He won’t be missed — he’s sure the king was ready to send George back to the Academy and find another mage to serve his best interests, anyways. His departure is easy, and after a few days of traveling by foot he manages to buy himself a horse (it’s a little small, but it is light on its hooves) to make his travel quicker. 

Where he’s going, he’s not sure… but he _does_ know that he doesn’t do well sleeping in anywhere other than a bed. He’d tried to spend the previous night underneath a tree, but the sounds of the forest around him combined with the uncomfortable hardness of the ground beneath him kept him up most of the night, eyes wide and alert. 

When he sees a village ahead, as dawn breaks over the horizon, the relief he feels is palpable. There’s a spring in his step, and his horse (whom he’s named Horse, so original) picks up the pace, eager for a stable to rest in.

And then something _explodes,_ and the village erupts into chaos.

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! this is my first foray back into fanfiction in a few years, so please be nice. we will meet sapnap in the next part, i promise!
> 
> a few housekeeping things:
> 
> 1\. this is a very loose melding of the Witcher (show based) and Minecraft (primarily centered around the dream smp cast of characters). i am picking and choosing what elements i take from each of the two different shows, and so not all details may be 100% correct; i am basing some things on headcanons as well as personal interpretation.
> 
> 2\. the characters in this fic are based around the characters created for the dream smp, not the real life dream, george, sapnap, etc. and any shipping is of their characters and not the real life people. 
> 
> 3\. i don't care if this gets seen by content creators, but if they do see this and don't like it i will absolutely take it down. 
> 
> 4\. you can find me on twitter at [sinstew](http://twitter.com/sinstew) for fandom things. (it's a new account that i haven't really used yet so it's a bit barren right now, oops.)


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